Chapter 22
22
Ruth
I woke at seven on Monday morning with a doozy of a headache and a roiling stomach. This time it was definitely not a migraine, but a hangover. After drinking the best part of a bottle of wine the previous evening, what else could I expect? I drank two glasses of water, swallowed paracetamol and went back to bed. After three more hours of sleep, I felt much better. If only the cafe were open, I’d ask Allie to make me a greasy bacon and egg sandwich and a double-shot expresso. But I made do with cheese on toast and two coffee pods.
While I was sitting at the kitchen table, still in my dressing gown, wool-gathering while I drank a second coffee, the phone pinged with a message. Hamish.
Have you forgotten your offer to help me pull down the ivy today ? It’s nearly lunchtime.
Hardly. But I had forgotten my offer and I was in two minds about how clever I’d be spending too much time in his company. I’d enjoyed yesterday evening immensely and, unless he was an accomplished actor, so had he. He’d told me about selling his apartment and how he was considering all his options, including going back to work out bush. Wouldn’t be wise to get attached only to have him evaporate into the Never-Never. From where I sat I could see how easily that attachment could happen. Pikes Clare Valley Riesling wasn’t the only thing that had given me an attack of the giddies. But then, what the hell? At my age, opportunity didn’t present often, if at all. And there was always the chance I’d misread the signs and all he was after was a brief distraction. Did I want to find out?
I quickly tapped in a reply: Give me an hour. Not at my finest this morning.
Ha! No rush. See you when I see you.
I finished the coffee and dragged on a well-worn pair of cut-off jeans and a tatty T-shirt. Sneakers on my feet. Straw hat, sunglasses, sunblock and gardening gloves and I was good to go. But not without a swipe of lipstick. On my way past, I watered the pots of herbs on the patio. They weren’t what you’d call flourishing and that was totally my fault. To flourish, they needed regular food and water, just like every other living thing.
Hamish was hard at it when I arrived and I had to dodge trails of falling ivy. A tangle of green cuttings wilted in a heap near the rainwater tank. ‘This is a mongrel of a job,’ he said from his perch up the ladder. I squinted into the sun and watched him climb down. ‘There’s another pair of secateurs there, if you wouldn’t mind cutting up what I’ve pulled down and shoving it in the green-waste bin.’
Hands on hips, I looked at the heap and then at the bin.
‘I know it won’t all fit in there but it’s a start. I’m organising a rubbish skip to be delivered.’ He mopped at the sweat on his face with the bottom of his T-shirt. The man had a sixpack. Well, I’ll be. Then he smiled and there was that giddy feeling again. ‘Thanks for coming over,’ he said. ‘I half-expected you to renege on your wine-fuelled offer.’
‘Tempted to, but a gardening workout will do me the world of good.’
‘You do look a tad seedy. Or is that something I shouldn’t mention?’ His smile widened. ‘There’s plenty of cold water in the fridge. And we have the leftover leftovers from last night.’
I grabbed the secateurs and set about the task at hand, thankful I’d brought the gardening gloves. It was the most work they’d ever done.
It wasn’t long before the band on my straw hat was sticky with sweat and I could feel moisture trickling between my breasts and soaking into my bra. The bin was full to overflowing, so I started piling whatever he cut down and sawed off in a heap. The main trunk of the ivy was thicker than my arm.
‘A chainsaw would be bloody handy about now,’ he said. He’d discarded his T-shirt and rivulets of sweat ran down his chest as he used a handsaw to chew through the main trunk. Then he dropped the saw to the ground. ‘Let’s go in and have a cool drink,’ he said. ‘I’m about buggered. Are you hungry?’
‘Thirsty more than anything.’ I mopped my face with the bottom of my T-shirt and followed him into the house. I couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved when he pulled his T-shirt back on. I got a whiff of the pungent sourness of his sweat as it mingled with my own. ‘Tell me again why you’re getting rid of the ivy? You could have trimmed it back around the kitchen window. I think it looked quite nice. Added to the ambience of the place.’
‘True, but it’d completely choked up the gutters on that side of the house. There’s water damage from when it rains and the gutters overflow. A bit of rot in the woodwork.’
‘Oh, I see. But aren’t you just going to sell the place anyway? You could have left it to whoever buys it to decide.’
He filled two large glasses with cold water and slid one across the table towards me. ‘We’ll get more for it if it’s structurally sound and neat and tidy. I think I’ll paint the outside woodwork.’ His gaze swept around the kitchen. ‘Been a while since the place has seen a lick of paint anywhere. From what I can see, I don’t reckon Theo was big on home maintenance. He never was that handy and Mum was the gardener.’
‘What did he do for a living before he retired?’
‘Pen-pusher in some government department. Took a payout when computers got too much for him. He was quite bitter about it, by all accounts.’
I took a long drink of water and then pressed the cool glass against my face. ‘So do you enjoy all this handyman stuff? Painting and the likes?’
He leaned against the kitchen sink, crossed his ankles. ‘I dunno. I’ve never thought about it, just do what’s gotta be done. But I do enjoy working with my hands and none of what needs doing can be too hard, if a bloke uses his common sense and YouTube.’
That made me smile. ‘Where do you think I learned to change a tap washer?’ I said. ‘And unblock drains and replace stovetop elements. Plumbers and electricians are notoriously expensive and in my kind of business, you do whatever you can to bolster the bottom line.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘From what I can gather, the past few years haven’t been kind to small business. You must be doing something right to have survived. How much longer do you reckon you’ll stick at being Ruth from Rosie’s Cafe? Before you hang up your apron, as you so aptly put it.’
Biding my time, I reached for the water jug and refilled my glass. How could I admit that I had no exit strategy? That my life’s savings were tied up in the business and I was too young for the aged pension. Hamish held out his empty glass and I topped it up for him. I sipped more water. His scrutiny became uncomfortable.
‘Simply put,’ I said, ‘I don’t have a retirement plan. Remiss of me, I’m beginning to realise.’
‘Not necessarily. Look at me, I had a meticulously planned retirement strategy, only to discover twelve months down the track it was completely the wrong one. And now? I’m no closer to an answer about what I’ll do or where I’ll live when I have to move out of my apartment. I can see myself going back to work.’
‘But wouldn’t that be a backwards step? Unless of course you needed the money.’
‘Nah, I don’t need the money,’ he said. ‘If I went back to work it wouldn’t be for the money.’
‘Lucky you,’ I said. If I was as well set up, hanging up my apron once and for all would be a cinch.
He put his empty glass on the sink, refilled the water jug and returned it to the fridge. The mood in the room had shifted, subtly but definitely, cooling by a degree or two. He stepped across to the kitchen window.
‘Hasn’t made much difference, has it?’ he said and I knew I hadn’t imagined his withdrawal. He didn’t want any more talk about the future. Or was it talk about money that made him uncomfortable? Was he expecting me to hit him up for a loan because he had plenty? Or ask if he wanted to go steady? I almost snorted at that idea.
‘I don’t follow you,’ I said, except for the obvious and blunt change of subject.
‘The light. In here. The bulk of the ivy’s gone but it hasn’t made much difference.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean and you’re right, it hasn’t. Maybe a skylight would be the way to go.’ I went to the sink, rinsed my glass and upended it on the draining board. ‘I might get going,’ I said.
‘What about the leftover food? I thought you’d stay for lunch.’
‘You eat it. Besides, I’m not that hungry and I have jobs to do.’
He looked put out. Too bad. I felt a sudden and inexplicably urgent need to get out of there.
* * *
Elliot rang after tea that night. I’d settled in for an evening of mindless television-watching in my dressing gown, a bowl of freshly made popcorn on my lap.
‘What’s happening out there in the sticks, old chook?’ he said, true to his usual form.
And true to my usual form, I resisted a tart comeback that would have gone something like: If you visited me more often you’d know . ‘Not a real lot,’ I said instead. ‘Business has been steady, keeping me on my toes. Are you okay?’
‘I’m very well for a man of my advanced age. You sound tired.’
‘Advanced age?’ I scoffed. ‘Perhaps I had one too many wines last night and that’s why I sound tired. Or it’s because I am tired. After five years running my own cafe I am very tired. I’m up before six most mornings and the days I bake it’s six in the evening, or after, before I shut up shop.’
‘Why don’t you sell up? Retire. Enjoy life for a bit. Before you know it, you’ll be old and decrepit like me.’
‘I’m too young to retire. I’ve recently rejigged things a bit so that I can have two days off every week.’
‘Who says you’re too young? If you retired now you could have seven days off a week instead of two. I retired when I was sixty and you’re what? Going on sixty-three?’
‘Yeah, well we’re not all uber-successful like you,’ I said, aiming for banter but not quite making it.
‘True,’ he replied, sounding pompous.
I laughed because that’s what he’d expect me to do, but I didn’t find it a bit funny. Not that I begrudged him or Robert their apparent financial successes; they’d both worked extremely hard. But then so had I and right now I was feeling a bit touchy about the whole retirement and money subjects. I’d said too much already. I had my pride.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I said and stuffed a handful of popcorn into my mouth. It was barely lukewarm.
‘So, when are you coming to stay, now that you have all this time off?’
‘On the fourteenth of February. I’ve booked in for a check-up with my GP.’
‘Ruth, what’s going on? Are you unwell?’
‘No, except for the occasional headaches. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I haven’t had a serious check-up since I moved to Cutlers Bay. I’m long overdue and while I’m not unhealthy, I could probably be healthier.’
He grunted. ‘Talk to Robert. He’s always lecturing me on what I should and shouldn’t do, what I should eat, or more to the point, what I shouldn’t eat or drink. And that I should exercise more. He can list all the maladies that run in our family, from high blood pressure to haemorrhoids. Downright morbid, if you ask me.’
Intrigued, I pushed myself upright and shifted the bowl of popcorn to the coffee table. ‘Tell me, do you have high blood pressure or is it haemorrhoids that are bothering you? Or maybe both?’
‘Not something I’m prepared to discuss with you, or anyone else for that matter, except perhaps my physician.’
‘Sounds like you should talk your doctor. You need to get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s bothering you,’ I said and sniggered.
‘How very droll,’ he said. ‘Now, provide me with dates and times to allow me to prepare for your imminent arrival.’
‘It’s three weeks away, Elliot, and please don’t go to any trouble. No dinners and shows and the likes. I would much prefer to spend a couple of quiet evenings with you.’
‘You really have gone to seed out there in Hicksville, haven’t you? However, your wish is my command. Evenings in it will be. Pizza and red wine. And not my best red either. Not with pizza.’
We talked for a while longer and he filled me in on the latest family goings-on. Robert was training to run another marathon and my niece Stacey’s husband Chris was having gastric bypass surgery.
‘Last resort,’ Elliot said mournfully. ‘The poor bugger has tried every diet under the sun and then some. Stacey is at her wits’ end with him. You know his mother always has been a big woman.’
The only time I’d met Chris’s mother was when he married Stacey. I didn’t remember her at all, never mind what size she was. Shortly after that we said goodbye.
For no real reason, Elliot’s call left me feeling down in the dumps. We were all ageing, every one of us, and the older we got, the more tenuous our grip on life became. What would Elliot do when he couldn’t manage on his own anymore? I couldn’t imagine him settling into a retirement village or the likes. And an aged-care facility? Unimaginable. Is that where I’d end up? A horrifying thought. When Mum couldn’t manage Dad at home after he’d fallen over and broken his hip, he’d spent several weeks in a nursing home. Visiting him in that place had been awful enough. The idea I might end my days in an aged-care facility was beyond the pale. I needed to get my act together, make the most of the years I had left before it was too late.